


How Much?

by asarcasticwitch



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Beta Peter Hale, Bets & Wagers, Cock Slut Stiles Stilinski, Come Swallowing, Deepthroating, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time Blow Jobs, Good Alpha Derek Hale, M/M, Not Beta Read, Older Man/Younger Man, POV Third Person, Pandemics, Rough Oral Sex, Stiles Stilinski Has an Oral Fixation, Stiles Stilinski is Eighteen Years Old, Stress Baking, Virgin Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23362591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asarcasticwitch/pseuds/asarcasticwitch
Summary: Stiles is stressed. Stressed with a capital S and Peter—Peter the gigantic asshat—is just lounging, calm and casual as can be, while the rest of the pack are out fighting the newest monster rampaging its way through Beacon Hills.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 18
Kudos: 785





	How Much?

**Author's Note:**

> Would you believe me if I said I came up with the idea for this right in the middle of stress baking a cake this morning? 'Cause, yeah, that totally happened.
> 
> It's basically just five thousand-odd words of porn. If anything, it's a little bit of entertainment during these trying times. 
> 
> My editing leaves nothing to be desired, so expect mistakes, Grammarly only gets me so far.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this as I had a lot of fun writing it!

Stiles is stressed. Stressed with a capital S and Peter—Peter the gigantic asshat—is just lounging, calm and casual as can be, while the rest of the pack are out fighting the newest monster rampaging its way through Beacon Hills.

Stiles was recommended, nay, _ordered,_ to stay behind. Something about this whole pandemic thing that’s also terrorizing the town—well, the world, really—and yeah, okay, he's healthy enough, but his dad isn’t. He doesn’t exactly want to risk catching the virus and end up infecting his only remaining family, but that’s not the point.

The point is, he’s bored as fuck, and Peter, well, Peter just doesn’t give two shits. The infuriating wolf has already made all sorts of noises about _drawing the short straw_ and having to _babysit_ the defenseless human, but really, Stiles can see that the man is in his element right now. He gets to sit here, safe and sound, while everyone else takes care of the danger, a king lazing upon his throne while his subjects do the dirty work. He doesn’t have to lift a single, well-manicured finger or risk his life, so secretly—not so secretly—the selfish prick is relishing in it.

Stiles doesn’t know why he’s so irate, but the image of Peter sitting there content and, dare he say it, happy, while Stiles is almost vibrating out of his skin with all this pent-up energy and rage is making his teeth hurt. But, then again, that may just be down to all the grinding he’s subjecting them to.

Also, he might've forgotten to take his Adderall this morning, something he’s only realizing now, so that's probably not helping his case.

Boredom aside, though, it’s not the only reason for his inability to relax. He feels useless. His friends are out there possibly dying, and he’s stuck within these four walls, basically being unhelpful and going stir crazy. He’s done all the usual research on the creature that’s currently being a pain in their asses, but in the end, there's just nothing more he can do, nothing he can provide that the others don’t already know or he hasn’t already relayed to them.

Hell, there's only so many times one can count the cracks on the ceiling before you want to rip your hair out.

Actually, he really should mention those to Derek ’cause there's _a lot_ , and that's a safety hazard all by itself-

“Fuck this; I’m gonna bake!” Stiles declares loudly, limbs flailing as he stomps his foot, no doubt looking like a child having a tantrum.

“Oh?” Peter doesn’t even bother looking up from his novel, and that just grates on his nerves even further; however, he does raise a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’m bored, and I’m stressed; it’ll calm me down,” he answers, indignant, as he storms off in the direction of Derek’s kitchen.

He knows before he even looks that the Alpha’s cupboards will be stocked full. With all the ridiculous humans having already been out and panic bought most of the supermarket’s shelves, the wolf had no choice but to swoop in at the earliest opportunity and get what they would all need for the next few weeks.

Considering there’s a whole house of them and the majority being wolves who are pretty much just bottomless pits, there's no doubt Derek's cupboards, pantry, and refrigerator are packed.

Since it’s been cautioned that everyone should stay in their homes with their families and basically just hermit themselves until this all blows over, they all decided it best to move in with the Alpha until the worse has passed. It keeps Derek sane, if nothing else, and puts him at less risk of going feral with worry knowing all his pack are safe and under one roof.

The place is big enough for them all anyway, so it makes sense. Not only that, but it also keeps everyone’s human family members a little safer; even though wolves can’t get sick from the virus, they can still carry it, so it’s just easier this way.

Stiles seems to be the exception to that rule, but credit where credit's due, Derek appears to be on a coronavirus warpath. He’s proving himself yet again how great an Alpha he is by taking extreme measures to keep his pack safe in these unprecedented times. If his furrowed brow and deathly glare aren’t enough to scare the damned thing into submission, his very strict rules when it comes to disinfecting certainly will.

Before anyone even thinks about going within two feet of Stiles, they must make sure to be squeaky clean. Then, unless it’s for a pack emergency—like today—none of them are to leave the house, Derek being the only one allowed to leave for necessities.

Stiles can’t help think it's overkill but doesn’t he half feel special.

Stiles had been a little surprised at how their parents hadn’t really said anything contrary with regards to moving into Derek’s home until further notice. It probably shouldn’t have been a shock; it’s not that none of them care, but for instance, Stiles’ dad and Scott’s mom are classed as essential workers, so they’re more than likely not going to be home much anyway. They were actually pretty grateful to Derek for giving them all somewhere to hole up while they both, along with many others, work on saving the town.

Boyd and Erica spend most of their time at each other’s respective homes anyways, and their parents have long since concluded that they’re inseparable, so nothing was really in their way. Lydia and Jackson are stuck in France, they’d tried to get home, but with flights being canceled daily, they just decided it best to stake out in Jackson family chateaux for the time being. Stiles doesn't blame them.

Isaac lives with Derek anyways, and Peter, well, Stiles isn’t too sure what’s brought the wolf here since he’s never been shy in stating his displeasure with Derek’s unruly bunch of misfits, but hey, maybe he’s just lonely. Or, he just wants to piss everyone off for his own amusement. Who the hell knows?

As he looks through Derek’s cupboards, he's delighted to note he was right, and there is everything he needs for baking scattered around the kitchen. The Alpha also seems to have a lot of actual baking equipment hidden away in his drawers, and Stiles makes a mental note to ask him about that later. But, right now, he’s making a chocolate cake, and nothing’s going to distract him.

“What are you making?”

 _Almost nothing,_ the voice in his head supplies sarcastically. 

“A cake,” Stiles drawls, too busy with setting up his station and donning his apron to look behind him where he knows for a fact the wolf will be leaning quite attractively against the door.

Peter’s hot; sue him.

“Hm, I must say, I never took you for a baker,” the wolf chirps thoughtfully.

“Well, surprise! Just wait ’til you see how good I am at knitting.”

Peter laughs, and Stiles smiles to himself at being the cause of such a hearty noise before shaking his head to stop any budding thoughts from following that particular path.

“Are you gonna stand there and watch, or are you gonna help?” Stiles swivels around on his feet to stare at the older man, eyebrows raised in question.

He'd been right about him leaning against the door, and _damn_ , _it’s suddenly sweltering in here_.

“I’m rather enjoying the view, thank you kindly.” Peter’s smirk is a filthy thing, and Stiles just rolls his eyes, turning back on his heel to begin measuring the ingredients.

“Fine, but stay quiet," he grumbles, failing at being petulant. "I need to concentrate”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of distracting you,” the man purrs, to which Stiles just scoffs.

He goes about his business, acutely aware of eyes burning into the back of him at every movement. He ignores it, but it doesn’t go away; it’s like a constant tingle rolling up his spine. It makes him squirm a little but not entirely in a bad way.

He creams together butter and sugar, stopping every few minutes when his arm starts to ache; he gives it a stretch, then resumes his beating. The only thing Derek doesn’t seem to have is an electric whisk, and Stiles will definitely be having words with him about that.

He weighs out the flour and cocoa powder, the dust from both clouding around him, but surprisingly he’s actually managed not to spill too much. So far.

Baking has always given him peace. He can’t explain it, but no matter how riled up he is, how anxious or jittery his ADHD is making him, weighing, mixing, and decorating his homemade concoctions just calms him. It’s maybe the strict need for concentration or the requirement of a steady hand, he doesn’t know, but he’s grateful whatever it is.

It gives him a break, at least.

He begins cracking his eggs into a tall glass, making sure they're okay before he adds them into the mix. It’s only on the last crack, eight eggs in, does his mischievous little brain suddenly supply him with an entirely random but utterly welcome thought. A mild distraction, really.

“How much?” he asks out of the blue, no doubt startling the man behind him after staying silent for so long.

“Hm?” the wolf hums in question.

Stiles turns around to look at him, a devilish smile on his face as he slides the glass full of raw eggs into Peter’s view. “How much would I have to pay you to drink _that_?” He points to the glass, his smile widening at Peter’s grimace. “Oh, come on, it’s not as if it would kill you, even if you did get unlucky,” Stiles continues, goading him.

“It has nothing to do with death, Stiles," the wolf spits, giving the gloopy mess a distasteful sneer. "It’s just downright disgusting.”

“Exactly, so how much?”

“I have no need for your money, nor am I a gambling man,” Peter huffs, lifting his nose as if the very idea of a wager is beneath him.

Stiles snorts. “Bullshit. Everyone enjoys a good ole fashioned bet once in a while.” He looks down at the eggs thoughtfully, trying to think of something that might entice the wolf enough to play his little game.

He grimaces a little himself at the thought of them sliding down his throat and- _Oh._

Something comes to his mind, rather too quickly for his liking, but he has to entertain himself somehow, so why not be bold and go for broke? He's always prided himself in being a little bit of a risk-taker, and well, being stuck alone in a room with the hottest man alive since Satan, he isn’t one to pass up on an opportunity.

He takes a breath, steadying his nerves. “I tell you what... if you manage to down every single egg in that glass...” Here goes nothing. He looks up to meet Peter’s eye. “I’ll give you a blow job.”

The wolf’s body tenses up as his eyes flick over Stiles’ features to test his sincerity. “Y-you-”

“Yes, Peter,” Stiles interrupts the man's apparent brain malfunction. “You do this, and I’ll suck your cock.” He smiles cheerfully, his voice strangely calm like he’s just talking about the weather. “But, the bet is only on the table for another ten seconds.” Stiles turns back to his mix, pretending to do something while Peter thinks on his offer.

_Ten... Nine... Eight... Seven..._

“No.”

Stiles can’t help the way his brows crease in confusion; he was sure he had him, was convinced he hadn’t misread the signs. “No?” he asks over his shoulder, feigning nonchalance. He doesn’t want to turn around just yet, not even sure his level of acting skills can hide his disappointment.

“We're going through a global pandemic, Stiles; I’m not about to waste food.”

Stiles smirks, only just managing to stop the snort that’s following.

From the corner of his eye, he can see Peter almost bouncing on the balls of his feet, his eyes flitting between the floor and the glass like it’s taking all his control to hold himself back. Stiles is sure the man’s mind is working tirelessly to convince even himself that he’d just supplied a good enough argument.

Stiles turns his face back to his mixing bowl, his voice taking on the playful lilt he uses to get what he wants; only this time, there’s a little coquettishness mixed in. “Well, that’s a pity ’cause I’ve seen the way you stare at my mouth whenever I’ve got something in it. I was so sure you’d just love to test it out for yourself.” He lowers his tone, speaking the next words slowly and as seductively as he knows how. “And, not to toot my own horn or anything but...” One gentle, flirtatious laugh right about here. “I really have no doubt that these lips could be rather talented given the-”

Peter downs the eggs in three seconds flat.

Stiles stares at the empty glass in disbelief before twisting his body around, comically slow. The screwed-up face Peter is sporting, along with the subtle gagging, would probably have made him burst into a fit of giggles any other time, but right now, his brain is stuttering a little.

_It worked?_

After coughing a few times and making several of those _bleurgh_ noises, the man speaks. “I swear, you better keep your end of that bargain Stiles, so help me-” he cuts himself off with another gag.

Stiles finally comes back to life, blinking a few times before the mischief returns. “Funny, I don’t remember shaking on it.”

At Peter’s steely glare, he does, in fact, burst into a fit of giggles. He holds his side as it begins to ache with the force of his amusement.

Once he calms down, he wipes his face of tears, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. He decides to take pity on the wolf, who has now taken to wiping his tongue quite harshly on a dishtowel.

_Bloody drama queen._

“Oh, chill out, creeper wolf,” he snorts as he watches Peter grab a can of soda from the fridge, gulping it down in one go. “A bets a bet, and I don’t want anyone thinking a Stilinski isn’t good on his word.” He winks and starts cracking more eggs. “Now, leave me in peace to finish this. I won’t be long.”

~

It doesn’t take long before his sponges are in the oven with a timer set. He takes off his apron, laying it on the counter before sauntering through to the living room.

Peter is back to lounging in the armchair reading his novel. He appears the picture of pure obliviousness, but Stiles didn’t miss the ever so subtle shift in the man’s posture as he entered the room. He's even willing to bet the page the man is on is the same one he’d been reading earlier.

“Busy?” he asks after a beat.

Peter smirks, placing his book on the side table after making a show of finishing the page he’s on—or pretending to at least.

“Never too busy for you, sweetheart,” he answers, grinning, and Stiles can’t wait to see that smug look fall from his face.

“Well then, I better get a move on, huh? Don't want my cakes to burn.”

“Ah, a romantic at heart,” Peter beams sarcastically.

Stiles huffs a laugh as he moves to kneel between the wolf's legs, a shiver running through him as they open to accommodate him, wide and inviting. From this angle, Peter looks... regal, and Lord above if that doesn’t make his dick twitch with interest.

It takes him a second for the realization to hit; this is actually happening. After all his fantasies, all his late-night self-loving sessions thinking about this very moment, and finally he’s doing it.

Peter must take his momentary pause as hesitation; one minute he’s staring down at Peter crotch, and the next, there’s a finger under his chin lifting his gaze to meet the older man's. “You don’t have to do this, Stiles,” he offers genuinely, and something warm unfurls in Stiles’ gut at the sincerity in his tone.

He dislodges his chin from atop Peter’s finger, his hands moving to the buckle of his belt. “Well, I want to, so buckle up, cowboy.”

Peter chuckles, relaxing back into the chair, hips sliding a little down the cushion to give Stiles better access— _such a gentleman_. “Very well. How could I ever say no to that sinful mouth?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat there; it’s actually kind of fond.

He makes quick work of undoing Peters belt and unbuttoning his pants; he goes to pull down the zipper and is greeted with-

“Of course you go commando.” Stiles’ eyes do roll for real this time, because _seriously?_

Peter smirks. “Well, one never knows when an opportunity such as this may present itself.” 

Stiles’ attention, however, doesn’t dwell too long on glaring at the wolf, as there are more prudent matters distracting him. Peter's cock is marvelous. Of course, it is. Not that he’s seen any real cocks in the flesh, the only ones being in porn, but at still only half-mast, it’s downright impressive. Stiles can’t help his mouth watering at the sight, his tongue itching to taste. Everything in him burning with the desire to feel that heavyweight forcing his jaw open.

It’s only then that his mind helpfully supplies that nothing is actually stopping him. He wets his lips before diving down to lick a sloppy, wet stripe from the root to the tip. Stiles can’t stop the moan leaving his throat as the salty tang of Peter's skin bursts across his tongue.

His eyes hazard a glance up, and he’s rewarded to the sight of Peter with his hands gripping the arms of the chair to the point of turning white, and his eyes screwed shut like he’s trying to rein himself in.

That, Ladies and Gentleman, is what gets Stiles hard as a rock. It urges him to see exactly what he can do to make the wolf lose control. He never did have very good self-preservation, after all.

Stiles’ fingers wrap around Peter's cock, now fully hard and weeping, and with one swift movement, he takes most of the hot length into his mouth and sucks. Peter’s hips stutter as he groans, long and loud, and Stiles, well, he goes for gold.

He tightens his lips around the shaft, bobbing his head in abandon, up and down every single inch—taking no prisoners. Every time he reaches the tip again, he swirls his tongue across the leaking slit before crashing back down close to the base. His cheeks hollow as he attempts with every trick he knows, to suck the very soul out from the wolf below him.

“Gods Stiles, your mouth. Where the- actually no, I don’t want to know where you learned this,” Peter hisses through clenched teeth, hips making little aborted thrusts as he desperately tries to hold himself back.

That just won’t do.

With a lewd pop, Stiles lets Peter's cock fall from his mouth, now nicely slick with spit; he watches it spring up and slap against the older man’s still clothed stomach.

“Believe me when I say, you’re the first. Well, the first with regards to the real thing. I’m a curious boy,” he shrugs innocently as he takes the dripping length in his hand, stroking gently as he speaks. “I’ve always known I like my mouth being filled.” He bites his bottom lip, looking at Peter from under his thick fluttering eyelashes, voice coy and delicate. “So, I may have done some research and...” He kisses the tip before continuing, “experimented on my dildo.”

Peter, honest to God, _whimpers._ Stiles smirks at the sound as he makes a show of licking up the white beading at the tip of the wolf's dick, his eyes rolling to the back of his head in pleasure at the taste.

“Fuck, who’d have guessed you’re such a wanton little thing.”

“I have my moments,” Stiles says with casual grace. “As I said, I’m curious.”

Continuing with his hand movements, Stiles dips his head down again, running the back of his tongue down the underside of Peter’s length. He stops when he reaches the wolf's balls and roughly presses his tongue against them, taking a moment just to revel in the change in texture. He uses his free hand to pull Peter's jeans as far down as they'll go before he closes his mouth over them both and suckles gently, his tongue acquainting itself with the older man’s deliciously sensitive skin.

A loud moan and several curses meet his ears. He casts his eyes up, the corner of his mouth curling darkly. This is definitely looking more like the reaction he was hoping for.

 _Almost there_ , he thinks.

He takes his mouth away after a few more licks and starts talking again, that devilish lilt to his voice back in full force. “I won’t lie to you; I’ve wanted for longer than I care to admit for someone to fuck my throat.”

Peter’s head snaps up, his eyes flashing blue as his jaw practically drops to the floor. Not expecting such a filthy mouth, it would seem. Well, Stiles does like to keep people on their toes.

After a long moment, Stiles hears the wolf rumble, low and dangerous—predatory—the noise going straight to his core. He whines as Peter’s teeth sharpen to points, his hand finding the back of his head, claws grasping onto the soft hairs there. He takes a deep breath, looking into the man’s glowing sapphire gaze, body shivering with anticipation of what’s coming. 

“Well, lucky for you; I’m in a generous mood,” Peter slurs through his fangs, the snark not quite hitting its mark with how breathless he is.

Stiles opens up his mouth wide, letting his tongue hang free like he’s trying to catch the rain in a storm. Peter wastes no more time, pulling his head down and thrusting his throbbing cock deep into his eager mouth. He gags slightly as Peter punishes the back of his throat, but it takes him mere seconds to adjust. Tears glaze his eyes as he tries his best to swallow every inch he’s given.

This is precisely what he wanted. What he _needs_.

The obscene sloppy-wet sounds that fill the room are like music to Stiles’ ears. The growling and snarling from the wolf only urging him to take more, do more. His cock pulses in the confines of his jeans as he lets every sound, smell, and taste overwhelm him. 

Stiles can feel the coarse brown curls at the root of the wolf's dick tickle the tip of his nose. He tries his best to keep up, tongue swirling frantically, throat constricting wildly as he takes in desperate breaths whenever he can.

This is better than he ever could have hoped. His mind is floating away into a trance as he just lets Peter fuck up into his mouth in abandon. All it’s taken is once, and he’s already addicted.

“Mouth or face?” Peter slurs, hips slowing slightly but still rutting in deep. At Stiles' questioning hum—his mouth too full to answer verbally—he elaborates. “I’m about to come. Do you want it in your mouth, or- _ugh_... on your face?” Peter manages to get out through his panting.

Stiles is grateful for the choice, but he doesn’t think this whole experience will be worth it without actually getting to taste the prize.

Unable to speak, he digs his fingers into the meat of Peter’s thighs and swallows him in as far as he’ll go, hoping it’s enough of an answer.

“Fuck, Stiles. You’re so fucking perfect,” Peter grits out, the praise shooting straight to Stiles’ dick, making him moan.

The vibration of the sound must be the last straw as one more hard buck and Peter is coming down his throat. Hot thick spurts coating its entirety as the wolf throws his head back and howls, body trembling and convulsing with the intensity of his pleasure.

Stiles breathes through it, using his lips and tongue to milk Peter for everything he has until the older man hisses with the overstimulation. He tugs on his hair, gently guiding him off the slowly softening length before sagging back into the chair, boneless.

Stiles’ taste buds dance; he licks his lips so as not to waste a single drop. He's no doubt a slobbering mess of saliva and come, but he doesn’t care; he feels utterly elated. Like he’s floating on a cloud.

It isn’t until he’s taken a second to allow his mind to glide back down to earth that he notices Peter’s hand hasn’t moved. It’s now caressing the side of his face, a gesture that looks too soft, too caring on such a man, but Stiles can’t help leaning into it. The wolf's thumb runs along his bottom lip, smearing the wet around before pulling away.

Stiles doesn’t let himself get too disappointed with the loss of contact. It was just a bet, after all, and he’s too high of all sorts of endorphins to let anything dampen his glow.

That is until the noise of the timer rings through the entire building.

Peter winces at the sharp sound, seemingly snapping out of his own dreamlike state. “Better not let your cakes burn.”

Stiles huffs in agreement, willing the muscles in his legs to unstiffen so he can stand up. He only stumbles slightly as his knees wobble, but he manages to catch himself before falling ass over tit.

He makes his way into the kitchen, stopping the timers incessant blaring before taking the sponges out of the oven. He stabs his knife a little too murderously into the middle of each to check if they're done and content that they are, he sets them to the side to cool.

It takes all of three seconds before his whole upper body sags, all his breath leaving him on a sigh as he slumps forward against the counter. He cradles his head in his hands and focuses on just breathing.

A firm hand glides up his back, rubbing in soothing circles, just a silent comfort.

After a few quiet moments, Stiles stands up straight, turning so his back is against the counter, his focus solely on the man gradually advancing into his personal space. He rubs his hand across the back of his neck nervously, deciding just to play the awkwardness off in the only way he knows how.

Humor. 

“Let it be known that a Stilinski always-” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because as quick as he can blink, Peter’s lips are on his, mouth devouring any squeak of surprise that may have left his throat.

It only takes him a second to get with the program, arms wrapping instinctively around the wolf's neck, pulling him closer. Peter’s hands find his hips, a bruising pressure, and just as quickly, Stiles' dick, having previously flagged slightly, is back with interest.

Peter kisses him like he’s starving, tongue exploring every inch of his mouth, tasting him. It’s like Stiles is the first meal he’s had in days, and doesn’t it just make him feel wanted.

He has next to zero experience with this either, but Peter doesn’t seem to care, quite content with dominating the situation and working to reduce Stiles to a whimpering mess with just his lips, tongue, and teeth.

After what feels like a lifetime, they pull apart, both panting and almost breathless. 

“Fuck, Stiles,” the man whispers against his shoulder. “The things you do to me.”

Stiles moves his head back, delighting in the pleased rumble the wolf gives at the subtle act of submission. Peter latches onto his skin, sucking a no doubt vivid purple bruise onto his neck, just above the pulse point.

“You fucker. My dad's going to kill me,” Stiles tries for stern, tries to sound at least a little bit annoyed, but it falls flat when a moan escapes in its place.

To be honest, he doesn’t actually care.

“My apologies.” The bastard doesn’t sound sorry at all. He stands up straight, gazing into Stiles' half-lidded eyes, hands never moving from his hips. “How long until _they_ cool down?” he asks, head jerking in the direction of the cakes, but eyes fixed entirely on Stiles.

“Erm... an hour? Maybe?” Stiles answers, brain-scrambling to think straight.

“Hm,” Peter hums thoughtfully. “Pity, an hour doesn’t give me much time to have you writhing and sobbing with pleasure,” the wolf sighs like he’s put out, but Stiles sees the glint of mischief in his eyes.

He blinks a few times, shaking his head to clear it, suddenly struggling for words. “Well, technically you have until the pack comes back, which could be several hours-” Stiles squeals, a very manly squeal he might add, as strong hands move under his ass, lifting him up in almost lightning speed—his sentence abandoned. He wraps his legs around Peter’s waist, holding on for dear life.

“Several hours? Now that I can work with.”

Stiles giggles into Peter’s neck as the wolf strides through the Loft with him clinging onto his body like a baby koala. He’s not even showing the slightest indication that his weight is anything more than that of a feather.

_Werewolf strength be praised._

Stiles is suddenly glad that his Alpha is so invested in his well-being and had decided it best for him to stay behind; he’ll have to thank the man later.

Much later.

**Author's Note:**

> If I have missed any tags or you think I need to add a warning, please let me know. The last thing I ever want to do is offend anyone!
> 
> I understand that, to some people, this may seem slightly unrealistic with regards to being a virgin's first time giving head. However, I wanted Stiles to be a little bit of a cock slut, but also have Peter be his first, so let's just roll with it.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [asarcasticwitch](http://asarcasticwitch.tumblr.com). I don't post anything of substance, but I can be friendly if I put my mind to it. Come say hello.
> 
> Thank you for reading and stay safe, guys!


End file.
